


Comfort Food For Beginners, Part 3: In Which A Fruit Shake Saves The Day

by squeemonster



Series: Comfort Food [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-29
Updated: 2011-09-29
Packaged: 2017-11-18 11:29:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/560568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squeemonster/pseuds/squeemonster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is figuring out how to be human, trying to make amends with Sam, and dealing with a moody and broody Dean. Clearly, Death had decided that an eternity in Hell wasn’t punishment enough for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comfort Food For Beginners, Part 3: In Which A Fruit Shake Saves The Day

**Author's Note:**

> Part 2 of my Comfort Food series. This series is not in chronological order, it's just different scenes from the lives of those in Team Free Will, focusing on the relationship between Dean and Cas. Set after the events of season six, Castiel is now fully human and hunting with the Winchesters. Many thanks again to both [](http://zatnikatel.livejournal.com/profile)[**zatnikatel**](http://zatnikatel.livejournal.com/) and [](http://dizzzylu.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://dizzzylu.livejournal.com/)**dizzzylu** who whipped my writing into readable shape.

 

 

Castiel has awakened in a hospital bed exactly twice in his long existence, and both times have been to the discovery of being newly-human. This second time is more of a shock than the first, if for no other reason than when he opens his eyes, he finds in his room the two people in all the world who he is sure will never forgive him for the wrong he has done them.

Sam and Dean are sitting in chairs on each side of his bed, and they both jump when they hear the rustle of sheets as Castiel moves. Dean stands and steps closer to his bedside, a mixture of pity and anger on his face, but he says nothing. As Castiel raises his hand to rub at his eyes, he notices an IV line leading from his arm to a bag hanging on a stand a couple feet away. There’s another machine hooked up to him as well, with beeping lights and numbers. He braces both hands on the bed, attempting to scoot up into a less awkward position.

He opens his mouth to speak, but only a croak makes its way past his lips. His throat is excruciatingly dry, his tongue feels as if it’s three sizes too big, and the inside of his mouth is sticky and foul from lack of use. Dean and Sam watch in silence as he regains his composure and clears his throat. “What happened?” A raspy whisper is all he can manage.

Dean exchanges a glance with Sam, who turns his head to look out the window. Dean sighs and stares at the wall, scrubbing his face with one hand while wrapping his other arm across his stomach and chest, as if to close himself off from everything. “We don’t know,” he says gruffly. “Got a call last week from a nurse here, said a man without ID was found in a back alley, torn up to hell and in a coma. They found your cell phone on you, with my number on speed dial. They didn’t think you’d ever wake up.” As he’s talking, Dean refrains from making eye contact, choosing to look at the floor, or the bed, or the wall. When his eyes finally fall on Castiel, his face conveys no emotion and is chillingly calm, other than the line of muscle down his neck, which strains as Dean grits his teeth and clenches his jaw. “So, you tell us—what happened?”

Castiel’s eyes roam around the room, not knowing what they’re looking for until they settle upon a pitcher of water on a cart in the corner. “Could someone pour me a glass of water first? I’m finding it difficult to speak with my throat so parched.” He has a moment of doubt over whether either man would show him even that kindness, but after a few long seconds, Sam steps to the cart and pours a cup, sticking a straw in it and handing it to Castiel. He accepts it gratefully, and swallows the liquid down quickly, not wanting to keep them waiting for whatever answers he can provide.

He clears his throat once more. “I... I’m not sure what to say. I’m not supposed to be here. I don’t understand why I’m here.” Castiel spares a glance at both of them, not wanting or able to keep eye contact for more than a second, guilt and confusion and fear making it seem impossible to bridge this gap between them.

Dean rolls his eyes. “What, you sayin’ you’ve got no clue how you ended up in some random hospital in the middle of fuckin’ nowhere? Do you remember anything that could explain why you’re all of a sudden human? What you were doing right before this happened? Anything ringing a bell, Memento-boy?” He folds both arms across his chest and stares down at Castiel, and even if his voice is a terse, edgy snap, his face is closed-off more than any brick wall could make it.

“Of course I remember what I was doing right before this happened. My confusion stems from the fact I’m not supposed to be alive right now.” Castiel sighs, and looks up at Sam, noticing the dark circles under his eyes, countless sleepless nights etched across his face. “Sam, I wish to express how deeply I regret breaking the wall in your mind. If I had it within my power, I would do whatever I could to—”

“Forget it.” Sam’s face becomes hard and stony, and he turns to head for the door. “I need some air.”

“Sam, wait.” Dean continues to stare at Castiel as he addresses Sam. “We need to get to the bottom of this, and I don’t wanna have to go telling it to you later.”

Castiel meets Dean’s angry gaze without looking away. He owes the man that much at least. Dean takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. “Cas, what the fuck do you mean you’re not supposed to be alive right now? I thought you were a bigger and better God, righting everybody’s wrongs. Everybody’s but your own, that is.”

The cold smirk on Dean’s face makes something ache inside Castiel. He takes a deep, shaky breath, and fists the worn bed sheet between his hands. “Dean, I truly did believe that my consuming those souls and becoming that powerful was a good thing, the best for everyone involved. It seemed our only choice to finally defeat Raphael… and what I saw of the world, its _suffering_ … I believed with all of my being that God, or _a_ god, was needed to bring balance and justice back to the world.”

He breaks eye contact with Dean then, and stares at the blanket across his feet, no longer able to handle watching the emotions warring with themselves across Dean’s face. He doubts Dean even realizes how much he’s telegraphing to Castiel, suspects Dean doesn’t know just how much of an open book he has always been to him, written in a language Castiel is fluent in. He tries so hard to present a cold, indifferent front to the world, tries to protect himself and everyone around him from knowing just how much he really does feel, but Castiel has always known. And it is breaking him to see that pain and know he’s the one who caused it.

“But what I didn’t anticipate was that those souls were so much more powerful than I,” he whispers. “And they were filled with anger and hate and helplessness, and they saw this as an opportunity to take control and wreak havoc on the world. They wanted retribution.” He stops and considers everything that’s happened over the past couple months. “I was such a fool, arrogant and filled with hubris. After defeating Raphael, I believed I could overpower the souls, but the more time that passed, the more I lost control.” Castiel pauses, waits for Dean or Sam to berate him, rebuke him, and tell him how ignorant he was for ever believing this was the right thing to do, but his pause is only met with silence.

He continues. “By the time I realized that I must get rid of the souls or forever become the monster they were determined to make of me, I only had fleeting moments of control over my actions. I was running out of time. And I needed help…” He trails off, and a long moment stretches between them until Dean barks out a hoarse, disbelieving laugh.

“Crowley?” he spits out. “ _Crowley_?” He steeples his fingers against his forehead, as if to draw out a headache by sheer force of will. “Fucking Crowley, I knew we should’ve ganked him when we had the chance.” He sinks his teeth into his top lip and shakes his head. “So, what happened then? Did he trick you, screw you over again?”

“No, Dean, you misunderstand,” Castiel says faintly. “Crowley _did_ help me. It was out of self-preservation, I think… I could have obliterated him with a mere thought. He contacted Death, told him a time and place we could meet, and that I wished for Death to reap me.”

He sits up straighter, ignoring the dizzy feeling from moving after lying in bed for so long. “I felt it was the only way to make sure these souls within me could do no more harm. I didn’t believe there was any way to extract them without killing me. I wasn’t strong enough to withstand the pain of them trying to hang onto my vessel… and I was losing control of them.”

“So, how’d that date with Death go? I take it you sitting here means you at least got to third base with him.” Dean glances at Sam, who shoots him an exasperated look.

Castiel frowns. “I don’t understand… we didn’t travel to any bases.”

Dean exhales impatiently, pinches the bridge of his nose. “Just—tell us what happened.”

“Death met me at the scheduled time and place, and agreed to reap me.” He shudders involuntarily at the memory of his struggle to bend the souls to his will, of their ever-increasing strength and greed, and his own weakening resistance in the face of their corruption and depravity. “At that point, my control over the souls was so tenuous I was blinking in and out of consciousness. The last thing I remember is Death walking towards me, saying something about trying an experiment first.” He floats a hand to his eyes at the memory. “He said it might pinch a bit. And then there was light. It blinded me, it was unbearable… I felt as if everything inside me was being ripped apart and out. I assumed it was from my grace and the souls dying...” Castiel lets his voice drift away into the silence and closes his eyes, resting his head on the cheap, flat pillow behind him.

Dean and Sam remain quiet for several moments, and then Dean is the first to break the tension. “Well. Guess we should go let the docs know you’re out of your freaky coma.”

Castiel cracks open his eyes at the sound of his friend’s voice, but Dean isn’t looking at him as he starts walking towards the door.

“They probably wanna check you over, make sure everything’s where it’s supposed to be.” Dean glances across at Sam, jerks his head. “Let’s go, Sammy,” he says over his shoulder. “Talk to you later, Cas.”

And with that, they’re both gone.

Castiel doesn’t expect to lay eyes upon them ever again.

 

 

*********************************************

 

 

Two days later, and Castiel is not sure what he’s supposed to do or where he’s supposed to go. The nurses and hospital administration keep asking for what they call his _details_. He is visited by a severe-looking woman with a clipboard, who badgers him for a social security number and medical insurance card, and points skeptical, slitty eyes at him as she queries how he intends to pay the alarmingly high medical bills he has accrued. He doesn’t have a clue what he plans to do with himself or how he plans to survive now that he’s still alive and human. He knows that the Winchesters have lived their lives on the fringes of society, finding ways to avoid awkward talks of _details_ and being productive members of society, although he never really paid attention to how it was done.

But he knows today is the day for action, whatever it may be. The nurses informed him that the doctor would be releasing him from hospital care at lunchtime, so he needs to make his escape sooner rather than later. His biggest concern at the moment is clothes. Other than the hospital gown he’s wearing, he has none. The nurses said they disposed of the clothes he was wearing when he was found because they were ripped to shreds and covered in grime and blood. Apparently, he was also found shoe-less, though he has no idea why.

He checks the tiny closet in his room on the off-chance there might be any leftover clothes from the last patient, but there are none. He makes his way into the bathroom, where he uses a washcloth and liquid hand sanitizer to bathe himself clean as best he can. He finds a toothbrush and toothpaste, which one of the nurses had been so kind as to leave for him, as well as a razor and tiny bottle of shaving cream. He quickly brushes his teeth, taking comfort in the feel of a clean mouth, and attempts to shave the stubble from his face. He’s never done this before; one of the advantages of being an angel is never having to concern oneself with hygiene. But he’s watched Dean perform the task enough times, so that he feels comfortable in attempting it himself.

Once done, and with only a few minor cuts and abrasions on his face, he exits the bathroom and returns to perch on the edge of his bed. His options at this point are so scarce as to be non-existent, but he’s sure that if he just thinks it through something will present itself as the solution.

Twenty minutes have passed when Castiel hears a knock on his door. He expects clipboard-woman to walk in, ready to confront him about his medical bill, but when the door opens it reveals a much more familiar and unexpected face. “Dean.”

“Cas.” Dean walks slowly into the room, a duffel bag in one hand. “I hear you’re getting sprung today. Got any big plans? You know… you just became human, whatta you gonna do now, go to Disneyland?” Dean’s voice is light, but his face is still masked with tension and wariness.

“I... no, Dean. I have no plans. I have no idea what to do or where to go. I don’t even know what I’m going to wear.” Castiel looks down at his lap, absently running his thumb across the soft cloth draping his thigh.

Dean clears his throat. “Yeah, well, that’s why I’m here. I brought you some clothes—they’re mine, so they’ll be too big, but at least I’m not making you wear Gigantor’s clothes.” He throws the duffel bag onto the bed next to Castiel and steps back to lean against the wall. “And Sam and I figured you’d need some help sneaking out of here before they try to make you pay the bill. He’s out in the hall, ready to run interference when I give him the signal.”

Castiel stares at him, afraid to believe what he’s just heard. “Why? Why are you doing this? I thought after everything... I thought you’d never want to see me again.”

Dean fidgets uncomfortably, looks over his shoulder towards the closed door, as if he wants to escape from this conversation. He rubs the back of his neck with his hand and glances back to meet Castiel’s stare. “Cas, no matter what shit’s gone down, you’re still family. Yeah, we got a lot of stuff to work through, and yeah, Sam and I both are still royally pissed at you. But that doesn’t mean we’d abandon you.”

His face flushes as he continues to speak, and he lowers his gaze to the floor between them. “You’ve done a lot for us over the years, more than we probably deserved, considering what pains in the ass we can be. So no matter what bad blood’s under the bridge or whatever, we’re still gonna have your back.” He hesitates for a moment, seems to consider whether he wants to say one last thing. “If you want us to, that is.”

Castiel sits quietly, pondering what’s been said. He’s not sure how to convey the emotions he’s feeling. Human language leaves much to be desired, at times. He settles for doing as he’s seen Dean do countless times, and steers the conversation towards something safer and not quite so raw. “Did you bring shoes? I seem to have lost my shoes, as well.”

He watches as a bevy of emotions flit across Dean’s face, and for a fleeting second he thinks he sees relief and fondness before the wariness gains control again. “Yeah, I brought some old sneakers I never wear, and some socks, too. First lesson in being human, Cas—don’t wear shoes without socks. That’s just gross.”

Castiel gives a small smile before standing up. “I’ll try to remember that, Dean.”

He grabs the duffel bag and skirts around Dean to change clothes in the bathroom. The bag includes a pair of worn jeans, a belt, boxers, the aforementioned socks and shoes, and an old t-shirt. The shirt has always been one of Castiel’s favorites because it tends to bring out the green in Dean’s eyes. As he pulls it out of the bag, he lifts it to his face and inhales deeply, his eyes closing at the familiar scent. It’s something he thought he’d never smell again, and until this moment he never knew he even had a favorite scent, let alone that this was it.

He quickly puts on the clothes, cinching the belt tight, as the pants seem to be a couple of sizes too big for him. When he’s dressed, Castiel opens the door and shuffles back to stand in front of the bed. Dean watches him as he moves, his gaze moving up and down the length of him. He remains silent as he stares, an unreadable look on his face. He clears his throat and coughs once before saying with a cracked voice, “You ready to ditch this place?”

Castiel furrows his brow as he watches Dean lick his lips. “Yes. I’ll be relieved to be away from here,” he offers. “I’ve decided I don’t care for hospitals.”

“Heh, not many people do. Lemme call Sam, tell him to start with the distracting.” He pulls his cell phone out of his pocket and speed dials Sam. “We’re ready, Sammy. Go be a dick.”

Twenty seconds later they hear a commotion in the hallway outside the room. Dean opens the door and peeks around the corner, then looks back at Castiel. “Come on, let’s go. Keep your head down low, don’t make eye contact with anybody.” He grabs Castiel’s wrist and pulls him through the door and down the hall, not letting go even after they’re in the elevator and the door has closed.

Dean smirks. “Leave it to Sam to have a case of the vapors and still get women falling all over the puppy-dog look.”

Castiel looks down at Dean’s fingers wrapped around his wrist, making Dean aware that he has yet to let go. He pulls his hand back quickly, as if he’d touched something hot. “Sorry,” he mumbles, and turns to face the wall of the elevator, but not before Castiel notices a flush rising up his neck and over his cheeks.

 

 

*********************************************

 

 

The trio spend the next two weeks on various hunts and in a very awkward dance around each other. Sam still understandably harbors resentment towards him, but Castiel is willing to do whatever it takes to make amends, therefore he remains patient with him. They don’t speak much to each other, and when they do the words are stilted, forced, and annoyingly formal and polite.

There are days when Castiel can’t help but wonder why they bothered to help him. Sometimes a whole day will go by without either of them uttering a word in his direction. At times, the atmosphere when they are traveling in the Impala is so thick and taut that Castiel finally understands the phrase about cutting the tension with a knife.

Those days turn into nights of Castiel sitting in the car, using the excuse of needing fresh air or a soda just to escape the hostility. He listens from outside while Sam and Dean argue, Dean begging Sam to lighten up and Sam frustrated and angry that Dean seems to have forgiven Castiel so easily. Those nights are always followed the next day with Dean being even colder towards him, the obvious guilt and confusion making him lash out at Castiel.

Castiel knows he should just be grateful for their help and kindness towards him, and he is. But it isn’t enough, and he misses the friendship they had forged, and worries that he may never experience that easiness and trust and warmth again.

With Dean, things have been uncomfortable as expected, but also quite peculiar. Even during those times of sullen silence, Castiel can feel Dean’s eyes on him when Dean thinks Castiel isn’t aware. Whenever he turns to meet that gaze, Dean looks away. When they’re sitting across from each other in nameless diners and bars, more than once Castiel has noticed that Dean is studying him through lowered lashes. Later, when he’s attempting to console the victim of a vampire attack, he looks over his shoulder to find Dean leaning against the Impala, watching. When Castiel catches his eye, Dean bolts, jumping in the car and slamming the door. Seconds later, the opening chords of of Zeppelin’s “The Lemon Song” blare into the night.

But it happens most frequently when they’re on the open road in the Impala. It’s an unspoken agreement that Castiel always sits in the back seat. Sam’s seat will always be just that—Sam’s seat. Castiel doesn’t mind, because he finds the back seat generally more preferable, anyway. He feels much less confined, and enjoys watching the landscape rush by. If he rolls the window down so he can feel the wind on his face, squints his eyes just so, and filters out the music and the noise from the engine, he can almost pretend he’s flying again. It’s in those moments, among others, that he will glance to the rearview mirror and find Dean watching him.

At first, Dean would always look away quickly, as if embarrassed at being caught. Castiel found it extremely frustrating, because he has missed the connection he always felt with Dean when they look at each other. What they were never able to utter in words, they communicated with their eyes. But after several days of Castiel catching him and Dean looking away, he begins to let his stare linger a few seconds. Each time it happens, he lingers a little longer, until at one point Dean almost drives the car off the road, forcing a shriek out of Sam and a laugh from Castiel’s lips.

After reassuring Sam that yes, he _is_ capable of driving safely, and making fun of his “girly shriek of pig-tailed girliness,” Dean glances into the rear view mirror again, catches Castiel’s eye, and winks.

And that… that fills Castiel with hope, as well as with some other undefinable yet pleasant feelings.

 

 

*********************************************

 

 

Castiel begins to wonder, though, how he ever thought there was hope when Dean spends the next two days being abrupt and cold again. Castiel doesn’t have a clue what could’ve provoked the change in mood. He and Sam have actually been moving forward on their path of reconciliation and amends, and are even having casual conversations with each other. Castiel mentioned one night at dinner how he’d like to learn to drive, said that maybe if Bobby was feeling generous he’d let him practice on one of his abandoned cars. Sam was encouraging, said if Castiel wanted they could fix up one of the cars and buy it off Bobby so he could have one of his own.

He finally felt as if he was making progress with Sam. Pleased, he turned his head to look at Dean sitting beside him in the booth. Dean kept his eyes down, staring at his plate of fries, his jaw tense. He didn’t speak a word to either of them the rest of the night.

Since then, it’s been more of the same. Not knowing what he did wrong, Castiel doesn’t have a clue how to make it better.

Dean’s stoniness and Sam and Castiel’s befuddlement at his behavior do not make their current stakeout a comfortable situation, to say the least. It’s nighttime, and they’re parked in the Impala on the outskirts of Athens, Ohio, doing recon for an attack on a witch coven the following night. Dean loathes recon, and he has no qualms with letting everyone know this. An hour of watching and observing and planning has Dean especially anxious and irritable. He drums his fingers against the steering wheel and switches out cassette tapes every few minutes, seeming to be unsatisfied no matter what music he chooses. Castiel watches him from the back seat, and sometimes he glances into the rear view mirror, catching Dean staring at him, but instead of holding his gaze Dean looks away quickly.

His sighs become louder and more exasperated until Sam slams his book shut and exclaims, “I’m craving ice cream! Dean, go to that shop down the street and get me a shake.”

Dean scoffs. “Dude, when did I become your bitch? Get it yourself.” He leans his head against the driver’s side window and hums along to the song on the stereo.

Sighing, Sam states, “So, you’re really wanting to continue sitting here, bored and being a pain in our collective ass? I thought you’d jump at the chance to get out and moving for a few minutes.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Well, since you put it like that, gimme your money.” He smirks and holds out his hand. “And gimme enough for me and Cas, too. Since this is your idea, you gotta foot the bill.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just get me some kind of fruit shake, if they’ve got it.” He shakes his head as he pulls out his wallet and hands Dean a handful of bills. “And take Cas with you.”

Dean visibly tenses. “I doubt Cas wants to go.”

Castiel frowns. “I _would_ like to go, Dean. I’ve never had ice cream before, so I think it would be best if I see the options for myself.” He tries and fails to not let Dean’s iciness affect him.

Dean opens his door. “Fine, suit yourself.” He climbs out of the car and slams the door shut with unnecessary force.

Sam snorts. “Have fun with that, Cas.”

Castiel doesn’t think it will be much fun at all.

 

 

*********************************************

 

 

The four-block walk is uneventful, quiet, and chilly, in both temperature and atmosphere. Neither of them attempts to make conversation. Castiel wants to ask Dean why he’s so displeased with him, but he’s afraid to hear the answer. His biggest fear is that Dean will one day want him gone; whether from being tired of his constant presence, annoyed by his clumsiness at being human, or if he decides that he can never forgive Castiel for hurting Sam.

Castiel’s not afraid of being on his own. It would be difficult for him, especially at first. But he hasn’t lived for thousands of years without learning how to adapt. No, what Castiel is most afraid of—terrified, even—is being without Dean. Castiel has known almost since he first encountered Dean’s soul in Hell that he loves this man. But angels never have reason to love one being any differently than another. They really only know love as one kind of feeling, without variation. Castiel knew that he loved Dean, and considered that love to be similar, if not exactly identical, to the love that he developed for Sam and Bobby, and Ellen and Jo. That he would do anything for Dean, drop everything including a Holy War when Dean beckoned... well, he assumed that was what happened when you loved a human. He did the same to help Dean’s family and friends, but he slowly realized it wasn’t for them or because they asked. It was for _Dean_ , because _Dean_ was asking.

Always, everything was for Dean.

And now that Castiel has realized the true nature and depth of his feelings, it’s as if the floodgates have opened. He not only wants to be closer to Dean, he wants it all. He wants to touch and taste and consume. He wants to wrap himself around Dean and crawl inside him, he wants to feel Dean’s hands claiming him and marking him as his own, just as surely as he marked Dean as his so long ago.

He wants Dean to need him just as desperately as he needs Dean.

To imagine a life without Dean, without the possibility of having more of him, is unbearable. Therefore, Castiel chooses not to think of how his stay with the Winchesters is tenuous, how they’ve not discussed much beyond where they were going the next day. But on nights like tonight, with Dean brooding and hostile, it’s difficult for Castiel to forget that his welcome may soon come to an end.

They enter the ice cream shop and Castiel’s senses are overwhelmed by the bright lights and the fruit and vanilla aromas that hang so heavy in the air. He follows Dean to the counter and listens as Dean orders a cone for himself and a fruit shake for Sam. He stares at the menu board, at endless lines of blocky, chalked on options he has no frame of reference for, smiles absently as Dean asks them to label the shake “For Samantha.”

Dean steps to his side. “What do you want, Cas?”

Both he and the young girl behind the counter are expectant, waiting for Castiel’s order. “I don’t know what I’d like,” he flusters helplessly. “There are too many options. Maybe I shouldn’t get anything.” He feels a bit lost and tired and frustrated, what with the past few days wearing his patience thin.

The girl seems to take pity on him. “Do you know what flavors you like? Or if you just want some ice cream in a cone, or maybe in a cup with some toppings?” She smiles at him encouragingly, which makes him relax somewhat.

He smiles tentatively back at her. “I think I would like… _chocolate_?” She nods a little, and he finds it encouraging. “Would toppings be appropriate with that flavor?” he dares.

The young girl giggles. “Sure! You know what I love with a scoop of chocolate ice cream? Strawberries! And whipped cream! Makes it feel kinda romantic, like you’re eating chocolate-covered strawberries with cream.” She giggles again and blushes as she glances back and forth between Castiel and Dean.

Dean steps up behind him and coughs. “Yeah, yeah, that might be starting out too fancy for my friend here. Maybe just get him a vanilla cone—”

“No, Dean.” Castiel turns to glare at him, using what Dean always referred to as his _smitey eyes._  “I’d like to try her suggestion.” He looks over his shoulder to the girl. “I appreciate your help. One, uh… _scoop_?” She nods again, smiles. “Of chocolate with strawberries and whipped cream, please,” he continues, and he swivels his head back to give Dean one last glare, then stomps off to the bathroom.

When he makes his way back into the lobby, he finds Dean leaning against the wall by the door, licking his cone and holding the bag containing Castiel’s ice cream and Sam’s shake. He watches Castiel make his way across the shop, his eyes catching Castiel’s and not flitting away as he moves to stand in front of him. They stand like that for several seconds, neither of them saying a word, just staring. Dean hands Castiel the bag and waits until he’s pulled his sundae out and taken a bite before turning to head out the door.

The first block of their walk is in silence, as before, but this time the ice cream is as much to blame as the tension between them. Castiel enjoys the varying tastes and sweetness of his sundae almost as much as he enjoys watching Dean lick his cone. The way Dean’s tongue slides pinkly up and down the ice cream is most attractive, he thinks. Unsettling too, so he diverts himself. “I think I like ice cream, especially with strawberries and whipped cream.”

Dean smiles as he dumps the remnants of his dessert in a nearby trash can. “Oh yeah? I’m glad you’re finally getting to try it, then.” He spares a sideways glance at Castiel, and stops walking to turn and face him. Chuckling, he says, “Dude, you gotta learn to eat without getting half of it on your face. You’ve got whipped cream all over your chin.”

He reaches out to wipe the cream off Castiel’s face, his fingers cradling under Castiel’s chin as his thumb lightly swipes across his skin. He does it again, and Castiel sees a faraway look appear in his eyes. Dean seems mesmerized, watching his thumb move back and forth, more just spreading the cream rather than removing it. On the fifth or sixth, or could it be seventh pass, because Castiel has lost all awareness except for how it feels to have Dean touch him like this, Dean moves his thumb up, brushing across Castiel’s bottom lip. Castiel’s breath hitches, and before he’s even aware of what he’s doing, his tongue darts out to get a taste of Dean, eliciting a gasp from his friend.

They stare at each for several long seconds, neither of them daring to move or make a sound. Dean licks his lips, and watches as Castiel opens his mouth wider and wraps his lips around the tip of his thumb. Dean’s eyes flutter shut at the sensation, and when Castiel begins to suck Dean groans and pushes him against the wall, lining up their bodies so that Castiel has no idea anymore where one ends and the other begins. He drops his sundae to grab Dean’s hips, and he hears Dean drop the bag with Sam’s shake before placing a hand on each side of Castiel’s face.

They both remain frozen like this, forehead to forehead, eyes closed, no sound or movement other than their labored breathing. Their mouths hover over each other, both afraid to make that final push, each breath on the other’s lips a tease of what’s to come.

Finally, Castiel can take no more. A move must be made, one way or the other once and for all, or he will surely fall to insanity. “Dean—”

“Cas...” Dean doesn’t open his eyes. His voice breaks, nothing left of it but a hoarse whisper. “Cas, I missed you so much. I just, I missed you so fucking much.”

He moves then, falls on Castiel, his mouth hot on Castiel’s jaw, raining kisses along the hard line of it. He licks and sucks his way to Castiel’s neck, leaning back up to kiss the side of his face, his temple, and then his forehead, rough, choked-out whispers of, “I missed you so much, don’t leave me again, you stupid bastard...” filling what air there is between them and sounding like a song to Castiel.

Castiel’s hands slide up Dean’s back and over his arms to cup his face, mirroring Dean’s own posture. “Dean. Dean, look at me.”

He stares at Dean’s face until he opens his eyes. The weight of what Dean is confessing sends a shock through him, one more powerful than any lightning bolt or sign from above. Castiel wonders how he never saw this when Dean looked at him before; what he sees in his eyes now is more love and loyalty and devotion than he could have ever hoped for.

“Dean I will never, I _could_ never leave you. I will remain by your side for as long as you’ll have me.”

Dean continues to stare into his eyes, his hands on either side of Castiel’s face and their foreheads pressed together. They remain like that until Dean’s hands slowly slide up and into Castiel’s hair, his fingers massaging his scalp along the way, pulling a moan from Castiel. Dean grabs a fistful of hair and tugs Castiel’s head back, leaning down to lick the remains of the sticky whipped cream and strawberries off his lips.

Castiel, panting at the feel of Dean’s wicked tongue slick against his lips and tired of being teased, moves his hands to cup the back of Dean’s head and pulls him down, their mouths finally meeting in a clash of lips, teeth, and tongue. Dean groans, opening his mouth wider for Castiel to find his way in, and once there he licks at Dean’s teeth and sucks on his tongue, his eagerness more than making up for lack of experience.

Dean pushes even further, rubbing their groins together and forcing Castiel to break off their kiss with a gasp. He’s never felt this much before, his entire body is fevered and flushed and almost vibrating from the thrill of of so much contact. It’s as if he can hear every molecule of his skin chanting _DeanDeanDean_. It’s almost too much for him, everything he’s been craving for months, if not his whole existence, all right here in this moment. Dean begins to suck on his bottom lip, then kisses him so deeply that Castiel never wants it to end, breathing be damned.

It’s messy and wet and strange and perfect, and every taste of Dean has him craving more.

They stop when they hear a car door slam down the street. Dean pulls his head back to look into Castiel’s eyes, but continues to lean the rest of his body against him. He gives Castiel a small, shaky smile and whispers, “Hi.”

Castiel grins and lays his head on his shoulder, closing his eyes and breathing in the scent of Dean. They cling to each other for many minutes, not yet willing to let go, their breath slowing to a more normal rhythm. Dean hides his face in the crook of Castiel’s shoulder, biting gently at the line of muscle there and making Castiel wish he still could smite, for he’d surely like to smite whoever slammed that car door and interrupted them.

He wraps his arms around the small of Dean’s back and sighs, “We should probably get back to Sam,” even while thinking that as fond as he is of Sam, he’d much rather abandon him for the nearest motel.

“Mmm, yeah, that’d probably be best.” Dean nuzzles his neck, making his way back up to Castiel’s earlobe.

“We should probably buy him another fruit shake.” He looks at the sidewalk where Dean dropped the bag, but surprisingly it isn’t leaking.

Dean follows his gaze. “Nah, it looks fine. I’ll just tell him it’s a smoothie instead of a shake, and he’ll slurp it right up.” He steps away from Castiel and reaches down to pick up the bag. “So uh, Cas. I’m sorry for being such a shit the past couple days.” He nods his head to the side, indicating they should start walking. “I just… the way you and Sam were talking, it sounded like you were wanting to get away from us. From _me_. And I just kinda shut down.” He keeps his eyes on the street ahead of them, casing their surroundings as he always does.

“After everything that’s happened, it’s understandable that you would be wary.” Castiel moves closer to Dean as they walk, their arms and hands brushing with each step. “But please don’t forget what I said tonight. No matter what happens, it will never stop being true.”

Dean leans in to nudge his shoulder against Castiel’s, a silent acknowledgement of what’s been said.

“Also, I think it would be prudent if we have our own room tonight.”

“Oh trust me, that’s happening.”

 


End file.
